


on the way to the coffee shop

by Squishychickies



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Bakery and Coffee Shop, Barista Dick Grayson, Barista Jason Todd, Civilian Dick Grayson, Civilian Jason Todd, Dick Grayson is Not Adopted, Fluff, M/M, Tim drake is not adopted, Workplace Relationship, and here it is, and then I wrote it, no cape au, the jaydick coffee shop au no one asked for, well I asked for it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:22:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29692893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squishychickies/pseuds/Squishychickies
Summary: In an explosion of chemical showers and cat brains, Jason gives up on school. But Dick's not the type of guy to give up--not on Jason, and not on the outdated dumpsterfire of a coffee shop they both work at.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd
Comments: 14
Kudos: 69





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy! The only warning that applies to this chapter (and the whole story) is strong language. Lots of it, ngl lol.

The classroom is laid out like a real, adult science lab. Sinks at every desk, with separate taps for hot and cold water. Nozzles for gas, which are clearly marked and almost exclusively obsolete, present to serve decorative purposes only. Safety posters on every square inch of spare wallspace.  _ Keep your nostrils, wear your goggles!  _ That one’s Jason’s favorite. Everything is clean, polished, and worth more than Jason’s old apartment.

A chemical shower occupies the back right corner, a big red head and nozzle looming over a wide circular drain. In the event that a student should come into contact with dangerous chemicals, protocol mandates a hasty trip to the chemical shower, where they can thoroughly scrub down and enjoy the luxurious benefits of ruining their clothes, embarrassing themselves for the next eight years, and, on the once-in-a-blue-moon off-chance that the shower was necessitated by a substance with any real danger, avoid sustaining chemical burns.

School policy is pretty tight--it’s a rich school for rich kids with rich parents and lawsuit-happy attorneys, on call at any moment to sue every school official and their grandmother on the shortest notice. As such lawsuits are obviously avoided like the plague, safety at Gotham Academy is enforced to a ridiculous degree. Exhibit A) the fact that the biology booklet of safety regulations, eighty-seven small-print pages long, instructs that  _ everything is a chemical _ . Everything should be treated as dangerous.

“Everything is a chemical,” Ms. Jones likes to remind them before, during, and after every lab experiment. “Everything is dangerous.”

Well, Jason’s just about had enough of that bullshit. If the teachers cared so much about their students’ safety, they’d do something about the rampant drugs and bullying. They’d  _ protect _ their students. No. It’s clear that their  _ care  _ only extends so far as the expensive lawyers and overabundant liability waivers require them to. Every time Jason thinks about it, he gets so angry he has to clench his fists and grit his teeth so he doesn’t start cussing out whichever teacher is nearest--he’s done it before and been suspended enough times to know it doesn’t change anything.

Nothing  _ changes.  _ Jason hates it.  Jason wants out.

“Everything is a chemical!” Ms. Jones declares as her students fasten their safety goggles and tie up their hair for today’s biology lesson. They’re dissecting kitten fetuses. Fun. Jason can already name three students who’ve mysteriously found themselves dreadfully ill for the duration of this unit, and one more who suddenly remembered her urgent appointment on the other side of town upon walking into the classroom and realising what the lesson outline consisted of. “Everything should be  _ treated  _ like a chemical.”

“So,” Jason suggests with a lazy raise of his hand, having found himself struck by a lightning bolt of inspiration, “like, water is a chemical?”

“That’s right, Mr. Todd.” Ms. Jones seems pleasantly surprised to see Jason taking an interest in the lesson, raising her perfectly groomed eyebrows and turning her eyes in his direction for the first time all day. Surprised and wary. Jason isn’t the type of guy who likes to participate in class, typically. Looks like his sudden attitude adjustment is making her nervous.

_ Good,  _ Jason thinks. 

He nods, trying to school his expression into one of polite interest. He’s just a student getting his education on. No funny business here. “What should we do if we ever spill chemicals on ourselves, then?” Jason inquires. “Sounds  _ dangerous.” _ His careful control of his facial expression has not been entirely successful, and a snarky grin spreads across his face to the obvious worry of Ms. Jones.

“We use the chemical shower,” she instructs, pointing to it with one outstretched hand. He curls his lips at the sight of her manicure. Her fingernails probably cost a grand each. “It will rinse off the chemicals to avoid immediate burns. No student should ever hesitate to use it if they need to.”

“Gotcha.” Jason gives her two finger guns to demonstrate his appreciation. “Chemical shower. Sounds handy.” Very handy, indeed.

The lesson resumes with a suspicious side eye from Ms. Jones, and with it, makes the comeback of Jason’s dedicated inattention. He’s not planning on going into any bio-related field. He doesn’t understand why he needs this class, anyways. What Jason wants to do, much more than any sort of science-related bullshit, is make a difference. He just doesn’t know how yet.

When he’d been younger--really young, young enough to still be happy--he’d wanted to be a cop. Something about the job seemed so glamorous. He’d cruise around in his sleek, black police cruiser, badass K-9 German Shepherd poking its head out the other window, and he’d rescue people. Save the day. Be a  _ hero.  _

Then, Jason got older, and realized there  _ were  _ no heroes. His father finally got caught--a matter of time, really--and the cops came knocking on the door to arrest him. Jason’s dad had cooperated with their every order, had put his hands up when they yelled and then behind his back when they grabbed him to put the cuffs on. All that careful compliance, not a single finger out of line, and the officers had  _ still _ knocked him to the floor and held him there to be beaten, just because his drug-related offenses and gang affiliations had been  _ nothing _ compared to his single most heinous crime of being an  _ immigrant,  _ of being  _ different,  _ and different made him dangerous so they beat him up before carting him off to prison.

Jason doesn’t visit him there. He’d been a shitty dad, all things considered. But the injustice still rankles.

Jason grew up a little more after that. He lived with his mother and went to school at an underfunded public school in the bad neighborhood of Gotham, and his dreams had altered course around that time, because apparently so far he’d learned nothing. Jason was going to be the President. Because if Jason’s dad could be bad and the officers arresting him even worse--if the people were bad and the people  _ helping  _ the people were, too, then the person up top would have to be  _ good  _ for there to be any hope of change.

That hope died as well, around the same time Jason’s mother did. And then he came to live with Bruce Wayne. And then he started going to school in the illustrious, distinguished halls of  _ Gotham Academy,  _ home of the Knights, drug-addicted rich kids, and bullies who clamor for attention because they’re probably neglected at home.

Jason looks around at the expensive, pristine classroom, and thinks maybe he’d have been better off at his old public school. At least there, the kids understood him. He was one of them, they were one with him, and so on, etcetera. Brotherhood--or as close as one could get to it in Gotham.

There is no risk of anything resembling  _ brotherhood  _ here, Jason notices with a scoff. Adam Wellington (the lucky, spoiled son of multibillionaire parents) and his sidekick Geoffrey White (a lowly,  _ regular  _ billionaire, no  _ multi  _ to be found) are picking on Lachelle Anderson again. She’s here at Gotham Academy on one of the much-sought-after Wayne Enterprises scholarships, and though she’s only been here three months, it’s clear that that’s been  _ more  _ than enough time to thoroughly piss off Adam and Geoffrey.

Their harassment is like a rite of passage at Gotham Academy. You know you’ve  _ made it  _ as a scholarship kid if they take valuable time out of their packed schedules to torture you a little bit.

Unfortunately, while Jason probably _had_ earned their animosity (having observed their bullshit early on and made it his goal to fuck _them_ over before they did the same to him) Lachelle’s only crime is having been too studious. She’s got the highest grades in the class, and in a brilliant moment of truly inspirational insight, the teacher had seen fit to pair her with Adam and Geoffrey for the cat dissection in the hopes that her good grades might rub off or perhaps be absorbed via osmosis. They’re now flicking particles of cat brain into her afro puffs while she desperately combs them out and, judging from her face, staves off tears. 

Jason stands up and very casually saunters over to their table. “‘Sup, bros,” he says with a casual nod. He puts a hand on Lachelle’s shoulder. “How’s it goin?”

“Fuck off, man,” replies Adam dismissively. “Get your hands off Lachelle. Ain’t you gay or something, anyways?” One note about Gotham Academy culture: they don’t need to use slurs like  _ fag  _ here, because the connotation of  _ gay  _ and the way they spit it out like poison gets the point across just as effectively.

“Yeah,” agrees Geoffrey quickly, “Don’t be touchin’ our girl Lachelle.”

“I’m not  _ your girl,”  _ Lachelle asserts, standing up and stomping away with her arms angrily crossed. “You fucking shitbags.”

The assholes’ eyes go wide with comical offense. “Don’t you fucking call us shitbags,” Adam commands, standing up to follow her away. Jason directs a cursory glance over to the teacher, who has found herself very conveniently absorbed in helping another group locate their cat’s liver. He scoffs. Figures. 

“Yeah.” Geoffrey cracks his knuckles and reaches out to grab Lachelle by the elbow. Gripping her harder than a vice, he yanks her towards him sharply, and she stumbles, yelling angrily.

All of a sudden, Jason’s simmering annoyance bubbles over and before he knows it, he’s seeing red. Before he can even consciously decide to take action, his teeth are gritted, his face is red with apoplectic rage, and in each fist, he’s scooped up a juicy handful of cat brains, which he wastes no time in hurling at the unsuspecting faces of Adam and Geoffrey.

His aim is true--the disgusting, squishy organs hit their marks and splatter all over, covering each of their faces, shirts, and backpacks like paintballs. Adam and Geoffrey both double over, howling in miserable disgust. “MISS!” shouts one of them, “MISS, HE’S THROWIN’ BRAINS AT ME!”

“GET THIS SHIT OFF ME!” hollers another desperately, wiping at it frantically with his hands and gagging when the slimy substance coats them--he, unlike Jason, has neglected to don his protective gloves. His next move is to frantically shake his fingers out to, hopefully, scatter the brains away, but they end up all over his expensive shoes, and that seems to appall him even more. “MISS, THEY’RE ON MY SHOES, THERE’S BRAINS ON MY SHOES! GET IT OFF!”

“Oh, I can get it off you,” Jason promises grimly as one of them wails about how he’s going to get  _ brain stains _ on his white shirt. His anger is not yet spent, and the declaration sparks a lightbulb of glorious inspiration. Jason hadn’t intended to utilize this particular secret weapon so soon, but another look at Lachelle has his rage returning in full and nothing he can do enables him to control it. He’s always had rage issues. 

Vision tunneled in on the bullies, Jason steps forward to grab each boy by the handles of their backpacks and, in one sharp movement, propels them straight into the chemical shower. With a push of the foot pedal, he’s turned it on, and icy-cold water is pouring over both of them in a torrent. Their clothes, fancy Gotham Academy uniforms with crisp collars and neatly done-up buttons, are instantly soaked through, and Jason notices with satisfaction the shapes of cell phones in their pockets. Good. He hopes they’re ruined, and no amount of putting them in rice will help. The boys continue to howl dramatically and it’s like music to Jason’s ears. He wonders why he hasn’t done something like this before.

By then, the entire classroom has turned to look and observe the confrontation with wide eyes, and Jason, breathing heavily with leftover rage and exertion, holds his hands up, fully meaning to make good use of his moment in the spotlight. “Everything is dangerous,” he snarls mockingly, clenching his fists. “How about these fucking assholes? You gonna treat  _ them  _ like they’re dangerous?” He punches a desk and answers his own question. “Of course you’re fucking not! Nothing’s ever gonna change as long as you let the  _ shitheads  _ stomp all over everyone else.”

Dropping his backpack like a microphone and relishing in the weight off his shoulders, Jason makes two peace signs and grins like a shark. “Well,” he finishes, making eye contact with the shell-shocked Ms. Jones, “fuck that. I’m done with this shit.”

He takes the back door right out of the classroom and into the parking lot. 

*

The halls of Wayne manor are, generally speaking, quiet. The lavish mansion is egregiously underpopulated--the only occupants on any given day are Jason, Bruce, Alfred the butler, and Damian the demon child. None of them are particularly loud people. Damian keeps to his room a lot of the time, and with the noteworthy exception of his screaming tantrum meltdowns, he likes to keep his voice very prim and proper like he’s perpetually in a library with angry old ladies looking over his shoulder. Alfred seems to live by the same general principle--something like  _ the help should be seen and not heard  _ even though he knows he’s as much a part of the family as anyone. Jason, while he does enjoy blasting loud rock music and yelling at Bruce on occasion, prefers to restrict those activities to the confines of his room, and Bruce himself is very soft-spoken when he’s not putting on a face for press conferences or galas.

So the manor is quiet like usual when Jason walks in that day after school to find Bruce already seated on the sofa with his  _ we’re-going-to-have-a-serious-chat-young-man  _ face on. That’s an expression Jason’s been privy to time and time again, and generally, it’s not as unbearable as one might expect. Bruce’s talks are usually short, interspersed with lost-sounding grunts, and eventually taken over by Alfred, who by all means does more than his fair share of the parenting in the manor. What is unusual about Bruce’s expression today is that, beyond resigned, he looks  _ thunderous.  _ Absolutely thunderous. 

Jason shudders at the sight of it. “‘Sup, B,” he tries in his most winning tone, directing Bruce with two friendly finger guns before turning casually to make his way to the kitchen. “I’m getting snacks, you want some, bro?”

“I am not your bro,” Bruce intones in his deepest, most gravelly growl. So Jason supposes it’s a  _ no _ on the snacks. “Why don’t you sit down.”

It’s not a question. Jason gulps apprehensively. He’d known this was coming, of course, but he’d been hoping to avoid it for another hour or two at  _ least  _ to prepare his appeal. “Uh, I’m a little busy at the moment,” Jason attempts, pointing at the kitchen. “I can pencil you in for an appointment tomorrow, though, busy schedule permitting. Maybe Wednesday.”

“Now,” Bruce commands, and like a puppet on strings, Jason abruptly changes course to plop down onto the couch. That’s not a tone he feels particularly prepared to argue with.

Once Jason is seated across from Bruce, fixing him with his most politely perplexed stare, Bruce clasps his hands together and sends a  _ God-help-me  _ glance to the ceiling like he’s about to start praying. Not that Jason’s ever seen him do that before, but he wouldn’t be opposed to the concept it buys him some more time.

“Before I get mad,” Bruce begins, sounding dangerously as though he’s already gotten mad, “I would like to hear your side of the story. Maybe,” he grits out, sounding doubtful, “there was a misunderstanding?”

“Ain’t no  _ misunderstanding  _ about it,” Jason bursts out angrily the moment Bruce shuts his mouth. He’s not sure how long Bruce will tolerate his sorry tale, so he’s got to get as much out as possible before Bruce reaches the end of his rope and the real argument commences. “They were flicking brains at Lachelle,” he begins. “You know Lachelle, super nice, super smart? The dumbass teacher paired Wellington and White with her so she could do their fucking project for them, and as if that wasn’t  _ fucking _ enough, they started flicking bits of goddamn cat brain at her hair like it was some sort of game. So I stood up and walked over there, all casual, and was like, ‘Hey bros, how’s it goin?’ Real diplomatic, you know me. And they told me to get away from Lachelle, as if they hadn’t been tormenting her just one goddamn minute ago! And then one of them grabbed her! So I threw brains at them,” Jason explains, as though any logical person in that scenario also would have reached for their own cat-gut arsenal. “And they started screaming. Little  _ pussies _ if you ask me. So I was like,  _ jeez, alright, I’ll get the damn brains off you.  _ So I take ‘em over to the chemical shower. And give ‘em a nice little rinse. Okay? That’s all that happened.”

Jason says it all as quickly as he can, feeling the fury begin to build up again as he recounts the story. He clenches his fists, almost wishing there were some brains he could throw at  _ Bruce.  _ He knows all too well how this is gonna go. Bruce is gonna be all,  _ that was unacceptable, you need to learn a lesson,  _ and Jason’s gonna resist, because  _ there is no lesson to learn.  _ He doesn’t regret what he did. Not even for a second. The only thing he’s sorry about is that he didn’t whip out his phone to record the magic show. Imagine how many upvotes he could have gotten on Reddit.

Bruce pinches his nose, looking very lost. “Why,” he asks, “was  _ anyone  _ throwing cat brains? I don’t understand where the brains come in.”

Relieved to be getting off topic, Jason explains with emphatic, helpful hand gestures. “It was cat fetus day,” he says informatively. “We were dissecting them in AP Bio. And everyone had to, like, remove their brain, label it with their name, and set it out on a platter, so they could be graded, you know? I just borrowed ‘em off the brain platter.”

Perhaps, thinks Jason hopefully, Bruce will be too distracted by the idea of a brain platter to be able to refocus his anger on Jason. Perhaps the topic of biology will interest him. Does Wayne Enterprises have a scientific research branch? Yes, Jason is sure that it does.

Jason has no such luck. “Do you know,” Bruce begins, in that quiet, dangerous voice, “how they preserve corpses for classroom dissections?”

“Um.” Jason pretends to rack his brain. “I, uh, must have missed that part of the lesson. Teach musta forgotten to mention.”

"Formaldehyde," Bruce says, voice colder than ice. “And I don’t suppose you paid attention to the effects of formaldehyde on the human body?”

Jason gulps, like he’s just swallowed a frozen-solid lump of snow. It settles in his stomach like an icy weight. He hadn’t meant to actually hurt anyone. The lawsuits will be brutal if he managed to accidentally kill those dudes. “Must have missed that part, too,” he manages in a squeaky tone.

“In large enough doses,” Bruce says, “it can be fatal. You were  _ lucky  _ enough that in this case, it was not. Misters Adam and Geoffrey were wearing their eye and nostril protection.”

Jason breathes out a relieved sigh and wipes a bead of sweat from his brow. “So, we’re good then,” he concludes hopefully. “I’ll just make sure not to do that again, okay? My brain-throwing days are officially over.”

“We are not good, then,” Bruce mocks. “Both sustained minor chemical burns on the lower portions of their faces and necks.”

Jason gulps. He still doesn’t feel bad for White and Wellington, of course. They deserved everything they got, and more. But he didn’t mean to cause trouble for Bruce. His lawyers will be up to their elbows trying to keep the fallout under control, and his PR team will be working overtime for weeks to prevent details of the assault from leaking out to the press. He can see the headlines already: dozens of puns about how Jason turns to throwing brains because he is sad that he, himself, possesses none.

“Oh,” says Jason intelligently, feeling the weight of Bruce’s disappointment like a ton of bricks on his shoulders.

“Yes,  _ oh,”  _ replies Bruce chillingly, and Jason’s guilt increases exponentially.

Jason stares down at his shoes for a moment or two, and Bruce says nothing. The guilt settles on him, tight like a second skin and heavy like it’s made entirely of lead.

After a minute of excruciating silence, Bruce speaks. “As you can imagine, you will no longer be welcome at Gotham Academy. I am under no illusions that this wasn’t your intention from the very beginning.”

Jason scoffs. Of course it was his intention. He’s told Bruce time and time again how much he hates that God-forsaken school. Those pristine white halls, decorated with golden trophies, patrolled by teachers who don’t give a shit about the kids. They don’t  _ respect  _ the kids.

More specifically, they don’t respect  _ Jason.  _ Why would they? It’s not like he’s ever made any effort to do anything but return the vitriol.

“I hate that fucking school,” Jason says, clenching his fists in his lap and turning his head up to meet Bruce’s eyes dead-on. His gaze is clear, cold, and sharp like pointy icicles of anger. “If they didn’t kick me out, I’d’a left.”

Bruce grits his teeth in an angry snarl. “Do you understand how much I pay for you to go to that school?” he demands. “It’s the best school in Gotham. I am trying to give you an  _ education,  _ so that you can have a  _ future.” _

Offended, Jason stands. “And you think I wouldn’t have a future anyways?” he shouts, taking a step forward to get in Bruce’s face. Bruce stands to meet him and suddenly it's a faceoff between two bulls, neither willing to back down. “I don’t need your help, old man. I never fuckin’ _ did.” _

“I give you  _ everything  _ and you throw it right back at me,” Bruce hisses, grabbing Jason by the shoulder. “You are  _ spoiled.  _ You are  _ entitled.  _ You are going to the best academy  _ in the state  _ and it’s still not enough for you. Do you know how many kids would just  _ die  _ to take your place?”

_ “I don’t want to go to the best academy in the state,”  _ Jason bursts out, hands in the air. That’s been the point all along. Of course Bruce wouldn’t be able to understand. To Bruce, money equals happiness. Money is the only thing he has, the only thing he fully  _ understands,  _ and it’s always been that way. Jason is different. Jason doesn’t  _ need  _ money--any more than it takes to get by, at least. So it hurts that Bruce called him spoiled and entitled. All his life, Jason’s looked  _ down _ on people like that. “I want to go somewhere they  _ understand  _ me. Somewhere I  _ fit in.  _ And there ain’t no school like that. _ ” _

Bruce inhales bracingly, and then his hand falls from Jason’s shoulder, and there is quiet except for Jason’s heavy breathing. “I understand,” Bruce says finally, shocking Jason into complete silence. “Would you like me to find you a public school in Gotham?”

Jason shakes his head. “No,” he says emphatically. He wonders why Bruce just doesn't get it. He can't do it. He _won't_ do it. _He_ _gives up._ “I don’t want to go to any school, okay. You don’t need a fancy diploma to have a future.”

Bruce tilts his head like he’s thinking, but Jason knows Bruce understands. He hires plenty of people without diplomas. He gives them a chance.

That’s all Jason wants. A  _ chance. _

“I will not let my son drop out of high school and then sit around doing nothing all day,” Bruce says finally, spurring Jason into another bout of anger. He opens his mouth to argue, but Bruce silences him by speaking first. “You are too intelligent not to make something of your life. You will either go back to school or you will get a job. Do you understand?”

Jason exhales and bites the inside of his cheek to try to keep his anger from spilling out. “At Wayne Enterprises?” he guesses, looking up to meet Bruce’s eyes. He supposes that wouldn’t be so bad. If he works hard, he could get a promotion in a year or two, and start a career, all without having to go back to school. He knows Bruce’s company has many different departments. He could find one he enjoys. Maybe the one in charge of the charities, or something.

“No,” Bruce says cuttingly, sending a sharp slice of hurt through Jason’s chest. “It wouldn’t be fair to my employees  _ or _ my applicants to hire you, my unqualified eighteen year old son, as a reward for somehow managing to get kicked out of the school  _ I  _ fund.”

Jason looks away, focusing his gaze on the wall next to Bruce. That’s… fair. Still, he feels rejected. Bruce doesn’t think he’s  _ good enough _ to work for him. Bruce is  _ ashamed  _ of him. “Where, then?” he asks scornfully. “You hire  _ everyone.  _ If you won’t take me, who the fuck will?”

Bruce is  _ disappointed  _ in him.

Bruce sighs and sits back down on the sofa. “I’ll figure something out, Jason. Until then--” he pauses for a moment, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he’s got a headache coming on. “Please just go to your room.”

Jason goes, the waves of Bruce’s disappointment washing over him like a riptide of shame he can’t escape.

*

Jason is still sitting in the spinning desk chair in his room, playing some very agitated  _ Terraria  _ on his PC, when Damian lets himself into the room without knocking.

“I hear they have finally tired of your shenanigans at Gotham Academy,” he announces unceremoniously.

Jason doesn’t look up from his game. He’s in the middle of kicking Skeletron’s ass at the moment, and could do without the distraction. Though, he supposes, now that he’s dropped out of school, he’ll have plenty of free time to throw hands with Skeletron as often as he wants. In no big hurry he hits pause and swivels his chair lazily to face Damian.

Damian’s still in his school uniform--a mini version of the same one Jason has to wear. Pressed black slacks, blue blazer, and white, long-sleeved button-down. Damian, despite having made his distaste for school quite clear, takes a lot of pride in his appearance and makes sure to have his clothes carefully cleaned and ironed every single day. Jason suspects that Damian’s wardrobe maintenance makes up around half of Alfred’s paycheck any given week.

Beyond that, his short black hair has been combed back tastefully, and unlike the average ten-year-old, his face is clean and non-sticky. If he weren’t so small, he’d look like a regular little businessman. Jason wants to spit in his face. If it were anyone but Damian, he probably would. After today, though, he really doesn’t need to face Bruce’s wrath for a second time. 

“They were tired of me the moment I stepped through the doors,” Jason corrects, spinning idly in his chair. “Just, now they have an excuse to kick me out.”

Damian nods attentively, crossing his arms across his chest. “I was appraised of the events by Safiya,” he explains, referring to the office secretary at school. How he came to be on a first-name basis with her when he still calls Jason by his last name, the world will never know. “While your methods were crude, I admit I had a certain… admiration for your boldness.”

Jason snorts, beginning to feel himself grin. Things with Damian haven’t always been smooth sailing. When his mother dumped him on their doorstep a year and a half ago, Jason swore he experienced the unprecedented emotion of hate-at-first-sight. What followed were six months of non-stop arguments that often devolved into physical assault, several escape attempts (by both Damian and Jason himself) and then finally, a truce. Only now are they making efforts to tolerate each other. It’s new and, quite frankly, weird, but not altogether unwelcome.

“Well, you would, at least,” Jason agrees. “Add it to the mood board for your own jailbreak inspo. Got any ideas yet?”

“Nothing that tops yours,” Damian admits with a scowl. “And I still disapprove of the use of animals for class when perfectly adequate digital alternatives exist. The cruelty--”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it, Dr. Doolittle,” Jason interrupts. He’d tried to hide it behind a front of outrage and righteous fury, but he’s pretty sure Damian cried when he found out the AP Biology class would be dissecting real kittens.

The one thing that brings Jason and Damian together as brothers is their shared loathing of all things educational. While Jason’s issues originate from the disrespectful, every-man-for-himself environment created by the academy, Damian’s are rooted in his abiding belief that he is  _ above _ the American education system. All specific grievances aside, the opinion that Gotham Academy is a dumpster fire inside a shithole rolled up in a trainwreck is the only thing the two brothers agree on and one of their very few bonding points.

Damian’s probably jealous, Jason realizes.  _ He _ managed to escape their nefarious, educational clutches, while  _ Damian _ has to keep on attending class like a peasant. The epiphany fills him with deep satisfaction.

“In the spirit of fairness,” Damian confides, “I believe Father should cut me the same deal he offered you.”

“What,” Jason asks, flicking a piece of lint off his sleeve to demonstrate his disinterest in the conversation. “About either school or a job?”

“That is the one,” Damian confirms, looking hopeful. “I believe he would--”

Jason interrupts him with a burst of raucous laughter. “Yeah, sure,” he snorts, “start handing out your resume. Damian Wayne, ten years old, previous job positions including demon child and general menace. People will be  _ begging  _ to hire you."

Damian scrunches up his nose, offended. “I’ll have you know,” he begins, holding up a finger, “I have experience in--”

“Torturing people, tormenting senior citizens, and making babies cry,” Jason lists gleefully. “You should bolster it a bit, add your proficiency at temper tantrums and--”

“I DO NOT HAVE TEMPER TANTRUMS!” Damian explodes, eyes bugging out in his outrage. His face is almost entirely red and his little fists are clenched at his sides. “If I applied for jobs I would be  _ swimming  _ in offers! I just need Father to agree!”

“Oh, he’ll agree alright,” Jason says, wiping a single tear of mirth from the corner of his eye. “He’ll say--”

“What will I say?” asks a deep, intimidating voice from the door.

Jason whirls his chair around. Bruce is standing in the doorway, phone clutched at his side and paperwork clasped on a clipboard in the other. Jason quickly wipes all signs of laughter from his face. Damian storms past him out of the room, probably to prepare his sales pitch. His loud, angry footsteps echo down the halls.

“I hope you weren’t picking on your brother,” Bruce warns, closing the door behind him. 

Jason rolls his eyes. “I’d  _ never,”  _ he says.

“Good,” Bruce concludes, effectively putting an end to that branch of conversation. He sets the paperwork down in front of Jason and places a pen down firmly on top of that. “I have found somewhere with a position open willing to hire you. Fill this out, please.”

Jason looks down at the clipboard. It’s a job application form for some place called  _ GOTHAM COFFEE.  _ Not the most creative name he’s ever heard, all things considered. He picks up the pen, but doesn’t uncap it. “A coffee shop?” he asks, twirling the pen around between his fingers. “Never heard of it.”

“It’s in Old Gotham,” Bruce divulges. His voice has not lost the rumbly texture that means he’s pissed off. “It is an independently owned business with a small staff. The owner is being kind enough to offer you a position.”

Jason rolls that thought over in his brain. A coffee shop. Could be worse, to be sure. He’s always been a sucker for caffeine, and there are worse ways to spend time than making fancy-ass lattes for rich people all day. He’s never been there before, though. For all he knows, it could be a total shithole.

He glances up at Bruce to gauge his expression. Hard, unyielding, and insurmountable as a brick wall. “Any other choices?” Jason asks, just because he doesn’t want to  _ comply  _ with the  _ system  _ so easily.

“Gotham High,” Bruce says bluntly. 

Jason uncaps the pen and begins to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you infinitely much for reading!! I appreciate all you comments, kudos, and bookmarks :) have a wonderful day


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to everyone who's read the first chapter-- hopefully this one holds your interest just as well!  
> I've had parts of this chapter written since January, but I've been working on revising it so it's totally different now. Hopefully you like it lol

Jason’s not sure what strings Bruce pulls or what kind of leverage he has over the business owner, but his job application is accepted in record time and his first shift is scheduled for bright and early the next morning. He scowls when he hears the news. He’d been hoping for a transitional period of a few days or  _ something _ before he’s shoved head-first into the deep end.

That said, Jason surprises himself with a bout of unexpected anxiety the morning of his first shift. This is his first job, after all. As little choice as Jason has in the matter, he still wants to make at least a semi-alright impression on his new boss and coworkers. He changes his outfit approximately four times (from all black, to black and red, to an adventurous black and blue, and then finally back to the tried and true Jason Classic of black and red) and brushes his teeth twice. His hair is a depressing sort of mess, so he combs it with growing despair for fifteen helpless minutes before slapping on a beanie and hoping his new place of employment doesn’t uphold a no hats policy.

His wardrobe debacle finally put firmly behind him, Jason checks his watch to realize he’s in serious danger of becoming tardy if he doesn’t get his ass in gear, stat. He speed-walks down the stairs and out to the garage, stopping along the way for an unsolicited chat with Bruce.

“If I find out you’ve gone anywhere other than to work--” Bruce begins, displaying a dazzling show of his boundless confidence in Jason.

Jason, who by now knows the drill, grabs his sunglasses from the coffee table where he’d left them the afternoon before and uses them to hide his eye roll. “Where else would I go?” he asks rhetorically. “Narnia?” He’s a little tempted to slack off, just because Bruce warned him not to, but in all honesty, he’s not eager to incite any more parental disappointment than he already has.

Bruce takes in a preparatory breath. “I just--”

“Don’t wanna be late,” Jason interrupts sarcastically with a wave goodbye, resuming his power walk through the manor and reaching his destination: the garage.

Jason doesn’t own a car--he’d flat out refused to allow Bruce to buy him one for his sixteenth birthday, and has for every gift-giving occasion since--but that just means he gets to take his pick of Bruce’s sizable collection whenever he wants to go somewhere. He’s not dumb enough to  _ invite  _ grand theft auto by driving anything  _ too  _ cool through the sketchy streets of Gotham, so his favorite vehicle is a sleek black sedan. Not too flashy, nothing that will catch any unwanted eyes, but respectable all the same. Plus, it fits his general aesthetic of black, black, and black. Last year he dented it in the school parking lot, throwing down with Brock Webber over the parking space nearest to the back exit. He won the parking spot but lost a chunk of paint and, temporarily, his bumper. Jason repaired it himself with duct tape, and while Alfred seems to practically itch with the urge to take it to a professional every time he sees it, he hasn’t gone against Jason’s wishes yet. Jason doesn’t know why he’s so resistant to the idea of fixing it. Only that, in mint condition, the car had seemed too nice. Something that someone like Jason shouldn’t be seen driving. He’d almost been relieved to have it tarnished. A car with a few dents suits Jason much better than a shiny new one.

Alfred is standing beside it with the keys and a jacket. “‘Sup, Alf,” greets Jason with a nod.

Alfred, well accustomed to Jason’s traditional choice in greeting, returns the nod. “‘Sup, indeed, Master Jason,” he agrees. Jason isn’t sure if he fails to understand the proper use of slang, or if he butchers it on purpose to prove a point. Either way, its a longstanding theme in their conversations, and it never fails to bring a grimace to Jason’s face.

Jason accepts the keys Alfred holds out to him, but scoffs when Alfred tries to put the jacket over his shoulders. “It’s, like, seventy degrees,” he protests, shrugging it off with an incredulous glance towards Alfred.

“Sixty-eight,” Alfred corrects. “And a young man should never be caught out in Gotham without a good coat.” He opts instead to fold the jacket and place it, with a pointed glance at Jason, onto the passenger seat. That particular nugget of wisdom is served up often enough in the Wayne household that Jason is almost tempted to ask what kind of trouble Alfred, himself, had gotten into as a young man in Gotham without a good coat. He’s sure the story is riveting. “Have a  _ sickytight _ day at work.”

“Alfred, no!” Jason exclaims, thoroughly horrified. He sputters. “You’re so-- that’s just-- that’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard, that’s not even slang.”

Alfred’s mustache twitches into the traditional Pennyworth appropriation of a smirk. “Should I use  _ sick  _ and  _ tight  _ separately, in that case?”

_ “Yes,”  _ Jason exclaims with a frustrated hand gesture. God. Alfred can be so embarrassing sometimes. “But you can’t use either of them,” he orders as an afterthought. “Even separately.”

“I shall adopt an alternate vocabulary, then,” Alfred agrees. Jason breathes out in relief, opening his mouth to say goodbye, when Alfred beats him to it.

“Have a  _ litty _ day at work then, Master Jason.” Jason’s jaw drops all the way through the floor.

Alfred, with a prim nod, is clearly aware he’s won this particular encounter. He pats Jason’s shoulder and takes his leave back into the house, and Jason is left cringing at his retreating form, utterly lost for words. His face is completely red. Alfred is such a fucking  _ grandpa _ sometimes. It’s mortifying.

Once he finally manages to get his ass in the vehicle, the drive is wonderfully short, and the traffic gods are on his side. By the time Jason’s parked the car in front of his new workplace, he’s got three minutes to fuck around until he’s officially late. He makes efficient use of that time scoping out the place from the outside and employing some good-old-fashioned breathing exercises. He feels stupid after about thirty seconds of those, so he quits with a grimace and proceeds to squint suspiciously at the building he’ll work in.

The building is wedged between two others on a street bustling with other shops and businesses. It’s in the downtown of Old Gotham, which is definitely not the worst location Jason could have imagined, but it fits the theme of  _ old  _ a little too well--even a quick glance at the shopfront reveals that it’s egregiously outdated. The bold, circular sign above the door that advertises the shop’s name is peeling and faded, and the lights for the letters  _ G, O,  _ and  _ T  _ have burned out, leaving a logo that advertises an enticing,  _ HAM COFFEE.  _ Jason thinks they should try that out as a special one day. Then he thinks, no wait, that would taste like shit.

Beyond that, the front of the building is made out of beige painted cinderblocks, with two glass doors that swing open below a little bell. In front there are two round, rickety-looking tables. One is occupied by a young couple, sipping out of paper to-go cups with facial expressions that radiate pretentiousness, and the other seats a very suspicious looking old man that Jason thinks he might prefer to avoid.

Jason wrinkles his nose, unimpressed by what he sees so far. But a glance at his watch reveals he’s going to be unfashionably late if he loiters any longer, and he steels himself with the reminder that perhaps he shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. Maybe the inside is nicer than the outside? Perhaps his initial sweep was inaccurate.

The inside is not nicer than the outside, and his initial sweep didn’t even begin to cover the atrocities committed by whichever so-called architect designed this hellscape of a shop. The floor is made out of a squeaky sort of tile that protests loudly beneath Jason’s shoes, and it’s so cramped inside, there is no room for indoor seating. Just a condiment table, a pastry case, a cash register, and room for maybe two or three people to line up. The kitchen area is visible beyond the counter, a rectangular space lined by metal countertops, various types of equipment, and more refrigerators than Jason would have imagined necessary.

There are no employees to be seen and for a moment Jason wonders if this whole thing has all been a big prank. “Um,” he says, leaning over the counter to peer behind it in case someone is hiding from him or waiting to jovially announce he’s been duped, “Hello?”

Nice, Jason thinks. Bruce is teaching him a lesson by… playing a practical joke? Maybe the employees will burst out of the fridges to scare him, or something. Maybe there  _ are  _ no employees, and the moral of the story is that without education, there is  _ nothing!  _ Just sadness and squeaky tiles and fucking  _ death. _

Jason walks backwards to the doorway, and aggressively opens and closes the door a bunch of times so the bell above it jingles loudly.

Finally, an employee is summoned. Poking his head out from another door in the kitchen area is a skinny boy with shaggy, longish black hair and blue eyes who looks a little younger than Jason. He’s wearing a red hoodie, black jeans, and a dark gray apron, and Jason’s first thought upon seeing him is, _ how dare you appropriate my aesthetic? _

“Oh, hi,” says the kid, slowly making his way up to the register. There is no rush about him, like whether or not the customer actually gets their coffee before they die of old age is irrelevant to him. “What can I get for you?”

_ Resignation papers,  _ Jason thinks. His lip curls in an involuntary expression of scorn. “I’m supposed to be the new guy,” he says. “Jason.”

“Oh,” says the kid again, looking minutely more engaged in the conversation. “Sick. I’m Tim.”

The slang reminds Jason of Alfred, which inspires a new wave of annoyance, because Jason is just not in the mood to deal with any shit today, thank you very much. Jason shakes Tim’s hand only because it seems like the professional thing to do, and not because he in any way likes this guy so far. No sir. Jason can smell bullshit from a mile away, and his professional prediction is that Tim is full of it.

Tim opens up a little swinging door in the counter so Jason can come through to the kitchen, and then he disappears again. “I’m getting dick,” he says with a vague wave before the door swings shut behind him.

Jason stares after his retreating form, thoroughly horrified. Why would Tim feel the need to tell him that? Has the man ever heard of too much information? Not to mention, he’s on the clock! Tim is ditching Jason on his  _ first fucking day  _ just so he can go get some action while he’s supposed to be working. Unbelievable!  _ Only in Gotham, _ he laments.

He’s unsure whether to be relieved or disgusted when Tim appears only a minute later with another man in tow.  _ Is he going to be getting dick… in the middle of the shop?  _ he wonders, feeling an odd mix of admiration and appallment. This is definitely not your everyday sort of coffee shop. He wonders briefly if Tim was trying to make Jason jealous, or if it was an invitation of some sort. Jason wishes he’d read his contact more carefully.

His questions are all answered when Tim, with a slow flourish, points at the other man. “This is Dick,” he introduces, and suddenly all is clear.

“Humbly at your service,” Dick confirms with no small amount of drama, reaching out a hand for Jason to shake. “You’re Jason, right?”

Jason accepts the handshake, dryly says, “Yeah, nice to meet you,” and then stares for a moment more before he’s unable to contain himself any longer. A snort bursts out against his will. “I’m sorry,” he says in a tone that very much implies he is no such thing, eyeing Dick with a mirthful stare, “but your name is Dick? Because Tim said he would be getting dick and I thought--”

“Oh my God, Timmy,” says Dick, doubling over with laughter at the expense of his coworker, whose face is as red as a tomato. “You didn’t say, like, Dick the  _ employee?  _ Dick the  _ supervisor?  _ Seriously? Richard. You could have just said Richard.”

“I didn’t think!” Tim exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air with a defensive pout. “How was I supposed to know he’d have a dirty mind like that?”

“How was  _ I _ supposed to know your supervisor is a dude with a name from the fuckin’ thirties?” Jason demands, embarrassed. He’s pissed that he’s already managed to make a bad impression, no more than two minutes in. Maybe, he theorizes, they’ll fire him today, and this whole clusterfuck will be done with. Bruce said he had to either have a job or an education while under the manor’s roof, but… life on the run can’t be that bad, right? He’s heard that public transportation is a blast.

“Whatever!” Tim announces loudly, like he and Jason are dreaming of the same epic escape. He unties his apron to hang it up on a set of hooks. The first hook he tries falls to the floor upon contact with the apron, and neither Tim nor Dick blink as he relocates it to a different peg. “I can leave now, right? Now that he’s here?”

Dick waves a hand dismissively, smiling fondly at Tim. Jason would think they were brothers, but they look too different. Tim is much paler, and with a skinnier frame. Dick is tanned like he’s just arrived from a vacation to the Bahamas, and annoyingly muscular. “Yes, you can go. Meeting up with Steph?”

“If she doesn’t cancel again,” Tim agrees, checking his phone with a worried-looking scowl.

“Come on,” Dick says encouragingly, slapping a hand on Tim’s back, “I’m sure it really was just a series of convenient coincidences that she couldn’t make it to any of your dates in the last week.”

Tim looks up at Dick with hopeful eyes. “Do you think so?”

Dick just smacks Tim’s back one last time, gives him a nondescript grin and a noise that could be interpreted a hundred different ways, and turns to Jason without answering the question. “I’ll show you where to clock in,” he says, opening up the door he’d entered through. “Come on.”

Dick directs Jason through the hallway to the clock. Jason is shown how to clock in, provided with an itchy apron in a smoky dark gray, and led back to the kitchen. All the way there and back, his shoes squeak on the annoying-ass floor tiles, and because Jason’s never been the sort of guy to hold his tongue, he bursts out, “These fuckin’ floors are so annoying.”

Dick laughs ruefully like his place of work hasn’t just been unduly insulted. “Yeah,” he agrees, “Kind of. But,” he adds optimistically, “this way you can always hear when a customer comes in.”

“So that asshole had no excuse,” Jason mutters under his breath. Tim totally knew Jason was there the whole time! He just  _ decided _ to take forever,  _ wanted  _ to leave Jason in anxious limbo, all because he felt like it.

“What was that?” Dick asks.

Jason doesn’t reply, embarrassed by the way his complaint had just burst out. He feels his face going red. Pissed off by his own faux pas, Jason scowls and crosses his arms.

The problem isn’t that Jason usually cares about manners or social standards--he’s got other, much more useful principles. For one, he firmly believes that honesty is the best policy. Jason’s philosophy is to speak his mind--if anybody can’t handle that, it’s a  _ personal  _ problem. The brutally honest attitude usually proves itself surprisingly rewarding--it got him out of school, after all. The only time it causes issues is when he cares what someone thinks of him, and now that his mom’s gone, Bruce is the only person in that category.

That doesn’t explain why Jason finds himself suddenly feeling inadequate, awkward, and eager to impress his new coworker. He feels uncharacteristically ashamed of his negative attitude. In the spirit of attempting to rectify his mistakes before he can manage to make any more, Jason claps his hands together and announces loudly, “Alrighty. Where the fuck do I start?”

Was the f-bomb too much? Jason might have to tone that down.

Dick grins approvingly. “Right the fuck over here,” he shoots back, making his way over to the cash register and indicating it with a flourish. “I’ll show you the register so you can take the next customer’s order.”

Jason raises a suspicious eyebrow at Dick--  _ is he making fun of me?  _ Seems plausible. But regardless, he agrees and lets Dick show him how to work the cash register. It is, like most everything else in the shop, outdated, and Jason pokes at different buttons, fascinated by how old they are. “When did you guys get this?” he asks, awed. This must be what dinosaurs used to count money. Although they might have had difficulty reaching the little buttons with their tiny t-rex arms. 

Dick appears to ponder the quandary for a moment. “It’s been here longer than I have,” he replies after a moment with a shrug. “You’d have to ask the owner. But I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s older than him, too.”

Just as Jason’s tutorial has reached its exciting conclusion, the bell jingles and a little old lady walks in. Jason’s first thought is,  _ what the fuck is this tiny, old-ass woman doing alone in Gotham? _

Dick sees her, and his face lights up with a grin. But instead of taking Jason’s place at the register to write down her order, he just tells Jason, “You can take this one.” Jason, feeling lost and out of his depth, watches helplessly as Dick makes his way over to the espresso machine and starts… doing espresso things. Jason doesn’t know how they work, and right now, figuring that out can’t be his top priority. Resigned, he turns to face the customer.

“What can I get for you?” he asks, tone harsh. He cringes internally at himself and wonders if he should have thrown in a pleasantry or two. Luckily, the woman doesn’t seem offended by the lack thereof.

“The usual,” she says, pulling a pink frilly wallet out of her purse and unclasping it with wrinkled, manicured fingers. She slaps a fifty dollar bill on the counter.

“Uh,” says Jason, not having any idea what this woman’s usual is. He glances helplessly to Dick, who is still busy making coffee.

The lady’s mouth shapes into a surprised, “Oh!” She takes off her glasses to squint at Jason. “Well, you’re new, aren’t you, dear?”

Relieved, Jason confirms, “Yeah. First day.”

“How lovely,” she says, beaming. “What’s your name, dear?”

Jason, mostly because he still has no clue how to ring this woman up and wants to delay as long as possible, sticks out a hand to shake hers and says, “Jason.”

She shakes it with a very prim, delicate grip, pushes the fifty further towards him, and says with a wink, “Keep the change.” Then she ambles a few feet over to where she can get a better view of Dick, and asks, “And how are you, dear?”

While Dick chats it up with the elderly woman, Jason stares, dumbfounded, at the fifty dollar bill she’s slid across the counter. Holy fuck.  _ Fifty dollars? _ How expensive can this latte possibly be?

Jason turns the key to open the register, and turns to face Dick just as he slides a cup across the counter to the customer. Jason points at it. “What’s that?” he asks.

Dick tilts his head, looking bemused, before he identifies the source of Jason’s confusion. “Oh. You can ring it up as a small vanilla latte.”

It takes a moment for Jason to find all the correct buttons, and once he does some of them need to be aggressively pressed several times before they respond. Once he has beaten the old cash register into submission and it looks like the machinery is going to cooperate, a price pops up on the screen.  _ $3.25. _

A slow grin spreads across Jason’s face, like the cat who caught the canary. A laugh slips out, disbelieving and excited. He puts the fifty into the register and withdraws a little over forty-six dollars in change. Then he inserts that fat wad of cash into the tip jar. Little old ladies know how to tip, apparently. If the tips are always this good, Jason might enjoy this job a little more than he'd expected.

Dick stares at him, looking dumbfounded, and Jason is quick to realize how it looks. “She said keep the change,” he explains. “And she paid with a fifty.”

His words have the opposite of the desired effect, and Dick’s jaw drops further. He reaches into the tip jar and grabs the forty-six-seventy-five, fingers stretching for the last quarter. He talks quickly. “She has eyesight problems.” Dick wads up the money and opens the door in the counter so he can chase after the customer. “I think she meant to give us a five.”

The bell on the door jingles as Dick leaves, and Jason is left staring after him in a rising fog of anger and acute embarrassment. How was Jason supposed to know she was a little old dumbass who couldn’t tell a fifty from a five? He wasn’t  _ stealing.  _ How could Dick even  _ think-- _ She said to keep the change! She specifically told him to. His anger grows, and Jason clenches his fists, face redder than a beet. He wasn’t  _ stealing.  _ He would  _ never. _

A minute ticks by, and Dick doesn’t return. No more customers show up, either, so Jason is left scowling, gritting his teeth, and mentally rehearsing the furious speech he will unleash upon Dick when he gets back. How dare Dick assume Jason would  _ ever  _ purposefully rip off an old lady? Does he understand how  _ offensive  _ that is? Fuck him. Fuck him! Jason has half a mind to rip off his apron and quit right now.

The bell jingles, the floorboards squeak, and Dick is back, wiping a bead of sweat off his brow. “Sorry,” he says, “she’d left already, but she works down the street, so I went there--anyways. She said thanks, and to keep this.” Dick places a five dollar bill into the tip jar.

Though Jason’s tirade had been carefully rehearsed, he can’t remember a single word. Instead, he crosses his arms, and scowls. “I wasn’t trying to rip her off,” he says, voice tight.

Dick looks up. “I know,” he says, “You’re fine. Just, next time, it’s probably best to double-check.”

Jason’s mortification doubles in strength and intensity, but his anger has been redirected inwards. Dick is right--Jason should have checked. It was probably the common-sense thing to do. The idea that Dick not only identified the problem that had gone right over Jason's head, but gone entirely out of his way to rectify it--

The idea that Dick might be a better person than Jason rankles.  So he spares Dick his furious, accusing lecture, and tamps all his shame down. He’s just here to do his job. He’s making coffee here, not friends. 

The rest of the shift passes uneventfully. Dick continues to be helpful and easygoing and Jason continues to be awkward and easily annoyed.  It’s in the last hour of Jason’s shift that the door opens with a jingle and the man who comes through is ostensibly  _ not  _ a customer. He’s dressed way too nicely for that in a black suit and tie. In the outdated old shop, he looks out of place and sharp. Also, he has an eyepatch, so he closely resembles a business-casual pirate. 

“How’s my money?” he asks with a sharp grin, opening the counter door to come into the kitchen. “I mean, my employees.” Jason watches apprehensively from where he’s been washing dishes. This guy looks way too amused by his own joke.

“Slade,” Dick greets, looking like he shares none of the same mirth. He pauses what he’s been doing to say hi. “Have you met Jason yet?”

“That’s what I was here for,” says the owner, turning to face Jason at the sinks. Awkwardly, Jason removes his hands from the soapy water, wiping them off hastily on a paper towel so the inevitable handshake won’t result in an impromptu hand-washing for Jason’s new boss. “Slade Wilson,” he introduces gruffly. He shakes Jason’s hand so tightly, Jason’s genuinely concerned that by the time they let go, amputation will be the only option. “The owner.”

Generally Jason isn’t one for manners, but the handshake has thoroughly (if secretly) intimidated him. So he says, “Thank you for having me,” in a tone that he hopes conveys extreme confidence. “I’m glad to be here.” That’s a professional thing to say, right?

“Mm,” says Slade, sounding entirely indifferent. “Is my apprentice showing you the ropes?”

Jason tilts his head and furrows his brows, confused. Dick, behind him, appears visibly as though he might facepalm. He says nothing.

“Yeah?” tries Jason, entirely out of his depth within the conversation. He feels awkward, and as though he’s suddenly taking up too much space in the small kitchen. He shoves his hands in his pockets and cringes, because they’re still wet and now there’s pocket lint sticking to his damp hands. He thinks Slade might still be waiting for Jason to continue, but he has no idea what to say.

Luckily, Dick has apparently made a speedy recovery from his bout of irritation, and cuts in with a helpful, “Anything you need, Slade?”

Slade sighs in an exasperated sort of way and shakes his head, almost condescendingly, at Dick. “No, just stopping by to meet our newest… teammate. I will be in my office the rest of the day.”

“Doing anything important?” asks Dick, expression oddly eager. He leans forward ever so slightly.

“Yes,” he growls, “so don’t interrupt if you can help it.” Slade begins to reach for the door--the one that leads to the hallway with the bathroom, storage closet, clock-in station, and presumably the owner’s office, but Dick steps forward to stop him, expression a strange mixture of hesitant and hopeful.   


“I was thinking, if you had a moment, we could talk more about… what I asked you about? I had this idea--”

“Boy,” interrupts Slade in a slow, deliberate tone, sounding again like this is a topic they’ve broached many times before and that he is thoroughly sick of, “We already talked about that. The budget is--”

“And if I could expand the budget?” Dick’s eyes are wide and hopeful as he wrings his hands. “I was talking to--”

“There  _ is _ no way to expand the budget,” Slade snaps, sounding frustrated. He runs a hand over his head and sighs exasperatedly. “It’s the off season and the damn health inspector is coming next Monday, no doubt for the sole purpose of finding things he has to demand I pay out the ass to fix. You think I’m going to spare my valuable finances just so you can--what,  _ renovate?  _ Like hell.”

A flash of annoyance flickers across Dick’s face. “I’m not  _ renovating _ ,” he disagrees, eyes narrowed. “I’m trying to  _ fix  _ things that are  _ broken.  _ The floors squeak, two blenders have exploded in the last month, our reviews on  _ Yelp _ are--”

“We’re doing  _ fine,”  _ Slade snaps, and Dick’s mouth falls shut. “And the day I put you in charge of the budget is the day you can tell my ex-wife to come back and have another try.” He barks out a dry laugh and points at his eyepatch. “I’ll be in my office,” he repeats, turning to Jason one last time. “Good meeting you.” His voice is still tinged with leftover annoyance from his conversation with Dick. All in all, it doesn’t actually sound like it’s been good meeting Jason. Jason tactfully opts not to call him out on it. “If you have any questions, ask Dick.”

The door closes behind him. Dick sags defeatedly against the wall, looking disappointed, and Jason is left feeling oddly guilty, like he’s witnessed a conversation he shouldn’t have been privy to. Still. So many questions. So many.

“Um,” says Jason, mostly to remind Dick of his presence. And then, because, sue him, he’s nosy, he manages to overcome his lingering trauma from the old lady incident to ask, “the fuck was that about?”

Dick looks up, sparing the floor from his angry glare, and his face softens when his blue gaze lands on Jason. He runs a tired hand through his hair and readjusts his apron. He gestures at his surroundings, nondescript. “Where to  _ start.” _

“His ex-wife?” Jason prompts, morbidly curious.

“Shot his eye out.”

“And the finances?”

“The only thing he talks about  _ more  _ than he talks about how his ex-wife shot his eye out. I swear. He’s like Mr. Krabs. Money money money.”

Jason grimaces. So far, his new boss’ positive attributes appear to be few and far between. “The  _ apprentice  _ thing?”

This time, Dick really does facepalm. “I keep trying to tell him that the coffee industry doesn’t really lend itself to  _ apprenticeships,”  _ he grumbles with a cringe. “I don’t think he gets the idea.”

That pretty much clears up all of Jason’s confusion. All except for one last question: “The renovation shit? What’s all  _ that  _ about?”

Dick slumps back against the wall. “I had these ideas for how to improve the place,” he explains, looking resigned. “I mean, it’s falling apart. You know what I’m talking about.” Dick waves his hands demonstratively at the squeaky floors, the falling hooks, the peeling walls and the stone-age register. Sure enough, everywhere Jason looks, is something in dire need of repair or replacement. “You’ve been here a day and you’re probably counting every minute waiting to get out.”

Jason cringes, feeling caught. Dick’s not wrong. The way things are, it might honestly be easier to just take a wrecking ball to the place and rebuild than to individually fix each problem. “So?” he asks.

Dick just shakes his head, like that isn’t the point. He continues, “Place is ugly and outdated. The menu’s been the same since the stone age when people were grinding coffee beans by, like, banging them between some rocks. We don’t get business anymore because we’ve got all these competitors, and you know what? The competitors are better! You know where I get coffee on my day off?” he asks, putting his hands on his hips as if to better emphasize his argument’s validity, “Not here.”

Jason huffs out a breath of laughter. Dick makes a lot of very good points, actually. Jason had wondered if he was the only one who thought the place was, well, kind of  _ dumpster chic, _ but it seems like at least Dick is aware of it, too. “You like Starbucks?” he asks, halfway teasing.

“I  _ hate _ Starbucks!” Dick exclaims, throwing his hands into the air. “And I’d  _ still  _ go there instead of here!” His face reads utter defeat. “I hate Starbucks,” he mutters mutinously, as if concerned that Jason doesn’t fully appreciate the scope of his passion.

“Well, I get why he won’t let you totally renovate,” Jason muses, nodding, “‘cause that shit’s expensive. But isn’t there  _ something  _ you can do? A few cosmetic fixes, change up the menu a bit, stuff like that?”

“God, I wish,” Dick says, crinkling his nose in annoyance and crossing his arms. He leans against a fridge. “Can’t because Slade has  _ also  _ been here since the stone age. He doesn’t like change. And he doesn’t trust me.”

That, Jason can relate to all too well. What with everything that’s been going on with Bruce, it feels lately like  _ no one  _ trusts Jason. He nods in sympathetic agreement. “Total bullshit” he says helpfully.

“Bullshit indeed,” Dick agrees. Then he’s perking up like nothing ever happened, and the smile is back on his face like it never left. “Come along, young grasshopper,” he implores with an inviting wave of his arm, “let me show you the ancient art of mopping the floor.”

\---

When Jason returns from work, Bruce is sitting on the couch, reading the same newspaper as this morning. Jason has a slight suspicion it’s just there to act as a prop, or maybe a buffer between Bruce and Jason should Jason start throwing things. 

“How was work?” Bruce asks, lowering the newspaper ever so slightly to peer up at Jason.

Jason ponders it for a moment. Runs through the day’s strange events in his mind. He’d almost accidentally robbed an old woman. His new boss is more of a penny pincher than the stars of  _ Extreme Couponing.  _ His new manager is... interesting.

“Whatever,” Jason grumbles. He throws his keys and sunglasses onto the coffee table.

He supposes it would be a waste to quit just yet.

**Author's Note:**

> so, I'm a pretty young person with pretty little life experience. So a problem in a lot of my fics is I'm writing about shit I literally know nothing about?? So for this one, the idea was to draw from two things I know intimately: High school (and the dislike of it) and coffee shops (and my love of them). Hopefully that'll allow me to write a good, accurate, enjoyable story!
> 
> Constructive criticism is welcome and appreciated. I LOVE all comments (even if I don't reply to them) and getting the little kudos notification every night makes my literal day. Bookmarks are pretty legit too. I don't usually bookmark stories so its a huge compliment when someone bookmarks mine <3
> 
> Thanks again guys <3


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